


Fault and Fallacy

by geniewish



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/F, Flirting, Humor, Infidelity, Regency Era, Sexual Humor, and dior is very cultured and gracefully horny, but in rather scandalously metaphorical way, dodo is a lesbian erotica writer, secret identity reveal (the identity is dodo), word 'bosoms' is being used
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-25
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:08:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28979376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geniewish/pseuds/geniewish
Summary: Dodo takes a step closer, and closer, until the sharp tips of her sabatons touch the side of Dior’s shoe. “If I recall correctly, your favourite phrase to describe me would be… ‘goddess of indelicacy and titillation’?”Every week, Dior sends passionate letters to the writer of scandalous sapphic erotica, though she still hasn't gotten a reply. Until one fateful night at the ball, someone who has always been so close to her, changes her life forever.
Relationships: Chae Hyungwon/Lee Minhyuk, Dodo/Dior
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	Fault and Fallacy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SchrodingersShanu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchrodingersShanu/gifts).



> this work is a gift to my dear darling [shanu!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SchrodingersShanu/pseuds/SchrodingersShanu)  
> be sure to read her works and tell her thank you for this amazing idea, because i had a lot of fun writing it!
> 
> hope you enjoy!!

_I lead the very tip of my index finger from the middle of her porcelain breast to her fluttering stomach. She breathed with urgency, though there was never harshness to her delicate, veiled exclamations of need. Her voice like sweetened milk, she exhaled a drop into the warm, fireplace-baked air, when I slid my loving gaze over to the edges of my nightgown that hid her lower half._

_With every rise of the tender peaks of her chest, a crystal shard that composed the vessel of affection in my heart, shattered and burned, and with it died my composure, never to return again until the heavenly force above takes mercy on the fallen warrior that was I. Wretched with desire, I collected my clothing, and as the blush blossomed in her high, marble-moulded cheek bones, I saw the petals of a rose unfolding between her thighs._

A gasp of surprise. Chided by the indecent visions that immediately rake into her sleepy head, she presses her legs closer together, her soft chemise bunching in folds between them. 

_In the frisking light of the fireplace, her opulent bloom glimmered like glass set upon a candle. In the manner that my winsome maiden would call rather tactless, I wetted my lips, but the wetness in my mouth could not dampen the bacchanal thirst in my throat. Featherless wings of her ribs rose with heavier lungfuls of air, and I could almost taste it on my tongue – her thrill, be it in good velleity – my, she has always been of such shy nature! – or, on the downside, in disquiet._

Of shy nature she never has been, but this––this bawdy! This is beyond any nature she once conferred to herself. Ah, but there is no _her_ in these publications. Cursed be the mind that strives to make oneself the lead heroine. 

_And so, tactless as I may have behaved, I laid my thumb on the inside of her thigh. Flattering were her gentle inhales, for as unresisting as her cotton flesh, was also the vigour of her attraction. Upon finding a firm grip, I straightened my long fingers towards the flower of her luscious womanhood, and when she softly called my name, I grazed my finger over her nectarine bud––_

“Dior?”

Frightened at once, she hastily closes the book propped against her breast and gapes at her husband in the doorway. His fist is raised as if he was about to knock on the frame before he threw her out of her bedtime meditation. 

“You are not yet asleep?” he asks.

She smiles, and she is thankful that the scattered candles can hide the heat in her face. “I was about to, dearest.” 

He is an unsuspecting kind, easy, unless he is playing whist. He wishes her a good night and promises he will join her in due time. Dior sighs with relief, though relief as such she does not feel. She opens the book that has been consistently used to hide the weekly editions of _The Aegean Aphrodite_ at the twilight hours – a play by Marlowe, or rather, what is left of it – a cover and a name, all the contents torn out and maimed. And for such a cause!

Dior strokes the namesake of the volume and closes _Valkyrie_ for good. The object of distraction set aside, she ponders her state, and the name that has been etched not only in the folds of her chemise, but in her frantic, feverish letters she sends into the unrequited silence. Hyúng Wøne must receive plenty of letters every week. And with such a flooding popularity among the underground sapphic circles where her novels are published, it is absurd to think she doesn’t have a servant to deliver her letters! Or she must be simply aloof. So austere and frigid against the flames of her words of love! She must be Dutch. Or a man, if any man could be so ludicrous as to love so passionately. 

And thus her twilight musings flow into the music of the morning birds. Lady Daniella was kind enough to invite them to her ball in celebration of her son’s engagement – a grand event in and of itself, for which Dior begins choosing her ribbons at the break of day, and yet her husband is nowhere to be seen. She lounges in her study, wistfully looking out of the window facing the extensive private park before her estate and the neighbouring mansions. There, Mr and Mrs Bottlebere are taking their weekly walk to town, no children to visit, no cousins to marry; and there, Mr Londicque, or as Dior likes to call him, Mr Hen-Tie-Lover (his hens are always tied together!), runs to deliver his mistress the news that his wife is to bear his fifth child; and right here, strutting along the pavement laid in front of Dior’s estate, high on her tall bay Andalusian, reigns over the park Miss… Dodo?

Dior doesn’t notice how the grip on her quill changes just ever so slightly when Miss Dodo turns her head and her big eyes of whiskey and cinnamon break right through the glass and gape at Dior with that strange, unladylike confidence of a woman too progressive for their day and age. And progressive she wishes to be! Who, in their right mind, would believe in noblesse chevaleresque after the French Revolution couped the very progress they’ve been fighting for! Though, hardly anyone would think to call Miss Dodo ‘right’ in the head. She sits on her stallion with one leg on either side of it, and scandalously, her riding boots embrace her calves to the very breeches. Breeches! And it would be truly extraordinary to see that woman without a cravat around her high collar. And that black, undoubtedly thick and velvet and tailored tailcoat, she must have taken as a prize – or a price! – from her many suitors that chase after her old money. 

Never has she told a story of her life and living, of the mansion she owns, of the barouche she harnesses her Arabians to, and of the collection of swords Dior’s husband is convinced she stole from the King of Scotland himself. Look at that herald, Dior, he would say, a woman could not have forged such fine work!

But if it is a woman with fingers so long and a smile so dashing... would she not hammer?

Alas, her gaze is turned no more, and as Dior moans over spilled ink and a stain on her hand, the birds’ chirping has slowly descended into the music of the cotillion. She is wearing her best evening dress, white satin and tulle sleeves, her bosoms displayed, and a pearl necklace iridescent in the golden light of a dozen chandeliers. Music plays, and she dances, and she dances, and she could’ve danced all night if her husband didn’t leave for another rendez-vous with his upper-class gentlemen over a glass of champagne. 

Tired but delighted, Dior excuses herself from her fair lady friends and walks to the balcony. Her ladyship’s manor is truly grandiose! And overlooking such a beautiful scenery. There hides a parish behind an old oak tree, and as Dior fiddles with the tips of her white gloves, breathing in the air of the country so green and glorious, a shadow rustles the heavy drapes swung beside the balcony. She startles when she hears a heavy _clunk_ on the marble floor.

“Are you enjoying the ball, Mrs Dior?”

And stepping out of the darkness is no other than Miss Dodo herself, tall and, oh so intemperate, dressed in… knight armour? Indeed, below her waist she is fully clad in steel! Shiny sabatons are long and large on her feet, and patterned greaves and poleyns are ludicrously loose around her thin physique. But, goodness, that bordeaux waistcoat is impeccably stitched to her shoulders, and that imperial purple cravat she ties with more elegance than any gentleman here.

And, despite the vulgar inclinations in her… fashion choices, she wears her hair down with peculiar, handsome grace. In her gloved hands she holds a small cup of dessert. 

“Miss Dodo? I am surprised to see you at the ball.” How could an ill-repute like herself get into the likes of her ladyship? And to believe this rich recluse would willingly attend a party! Dior will not excuse her words.

Miss Dodo chuckles, of course, her full ruddy lips curving over her pearly teeth and her eyes – those eyes of exotic beauty – crease too. Dior swallows, feeling suddenly hotter than she did during the dance. Is the summer getting warmer?

“Your words cut deeper than a knife,” Dodo says, and when she stands right before Dior, it is as if heat cascades from Dior’s face to her very breast. 

“We have been acquaintances for years, Miss Dodo, and never have I had the pleasure to observe you at a ball,” Dior quickly gathers herself and raises her chin, and she pays no attention to the way Dodo’s eyes travel from her cheeks to her décolleté with well-concealed interest.

In that moment, the music changes, and Dodo takes a little step back, places her half-finished dessert on the railing of the balcony, and bows, her armour clunking with every light movement, and then offers her hand. Being on the same level with her, looking right into her eyes, Dior cannot prevent her lips from parting. 

“Would you be kind enough to dance with me, Mrs Dior?”

So earnest and so honest. A little birdie at the back of Dior’s head chirps that, no, two ladies simply cannot dance without permission from her ladyship, but a big, oh, very big birdie that stands right in front of her, urges her with the fantasy of a Shakespeare’s sonnet. Those languid eyes… how could she refuse? 

Dior takes the offered hand, and instead of lining up at the bottom of the formation, Dodo leads her to the very centre. Oh, what a preposterous social faux pas she is committing! Dancing with a woman instead of her husband – a woman clad in plate armour, at that, who is more than just notorious for her extravagance. Oh, this is a social death. What will her friends think of her?

But folly violin plays, and country tambourines join, and they bow to each other nonetheless, and they intertwine at the elbows, and they bounce into a dance, and Dior is blind to the judging stares and deaf to the rhythmic thudding of her partner’s iron shoes. She is in love with the dance, she lives and breathes in the dance, and she will never stop until the very last note is played. And though they change partners and collide back together, Dodo’s eyes never leave her figure. Like an infectious fever, Dior spreads her sunlit smiles to the gentlemen that happen to brush her shoulders, and she sees those sunshines curl in the corners of Dodo’s ruddy mouth. 

Ah, life is truly a dessert when you are spinning in a dance!

Then, wondrously, the music comes to its end, they get back in line, and Dior performs a slow curtsy to her partner, and Dodo, in scandalous fashion, places her right hand on her chest and bows. Flushed in her cheeks anew, tight in her breast, Dior patters towards the balcony again, in dire need of air and a little privacy from the chitter-chatter of the ballroom. She can’t believe she’s done it! Granted, the night has befallen upon the country, and her white figure is veiled in the shadows of the drapes. 

Familiar clanking echoes behind her, and Dodo joins her in the moonless smog outside the party. The light from the room casts a golden glow upon her cheeks, and, unbeknownst to herself, Dior starts to pull on the fingertips of her right glove.

“You are a rather decent dancer, Miss Dodo,” Dior says after clearing her throat. Dodo smiles.

“My, you are unpardonably parsimonious with words on your tongue, Mrs Dior.”

Dior is immediately taken aback. Preposterous! She is extremely well-spoken, if only a little reserved lest she intends on showing her sharp tongue. “Whatever do you mean, Miss Dodo?”

Dodo takes a step closer, and closer, until the sharp tips of her sabatons touch the side of Dior’s shoe. “If I recall correctly, your favourite phrase to describe me would be… ‘goddess of indelicacy and titillation’?”

A gasp finds its way out of Dior’s parted mouth. Those words… oh, how familiar they are, for Dior has memorised the curve of her quill when she writes them down in letters addressed to… 

“Have I not been ‘the subject of your salacious dreams’ and ‘the sweetened scent of nectar from the roses in between your thighs?”

She will faint, Dior will faint. This can’t be! How can Dodo possibly know of all the letters she sends to Hyúng Wøne exactly a night after the latest publication? Could she be stealing them as revenge for that one time Dior refused an invitation to Dodo’s dinner party due to sickness? Or could it be that she is…

“A faithful patron to my flame-licking poetry that ignites fire in your loins?” Then Dodo’s eyebrows slope, and a glint of insecurity saddens her gaze. “Or was I wrong, Mrs Dior? Your name in that beautiful handwriting signed in the bottom right of every letter… Does it not belong to you?”

Dior scrunches the pulled half of the glove in her left hand. Oh, woe, this is a tragedy! This must be a pantomime, a spectacle by the low-class folk in town, for there is no way her life has taken such a turn! This whole time, Hyúng Wøne, the writer of the most embellished obscenity she has ever casted her eyes upon… was her ill-reputed neighbour? 

Oh, Dior feels her spirit leave her body. If it weren’t for the hands immediately wrapping around her waist, she would have fainted and fallen right there, in the middle of the ball. Instead she falls in Dodo’s arms, her bosoms pressing against a firm, clothed chest, and those full ruddy lips almost catch her frightened gasp. She is unlawfully close. She has always been so close. Hyúng Wøne, the woman that always describes her lover’s perky breasts in ten epithets and dares slide her hands to the narrow, though deliciously rounded backside…

“It is you!” Dior exclaims on her very last breath. 

And she is emptied again when all those little dots in Hyúng Wøne’s – Dodo’s – elusive and terribly explicit poetry connect to form no other portrait but Dior’s. High cheeks and thin rasp to her voice, exotic beauty of southern sea travels and fascination with artistic fancies… Such superficial observations for such profound compositions. 

“I am not winsome, and I am no maiden!” Dior cries, frowning at Dodo’s terrifically unabashed wonder. 

“And even in the night your face is rosier than the bushes beneath my windows,” Dodo replies instead and spreads her fingers on Dior’s back. 

Heavens, how foolish she has been. Unfaithful to her husband, she has been tempting herself with visions of unlawful romance, such that no creature of the other sex could understand. But Dior has never been a romantic, and she most certainly has never been beguiled by such vain and vulturous creations.

Yet here she floats, foolish, unfaithful, romantic and beguiled, in the arms of a woman she intends to kiss, and pulls the glove off her palm until her thumb greets the midnight air. Dodo raises one of her hands to cup the side of Dior’s face. And were Dior a real valkyrie, she thinks to herself, she would have never allowed Dodo to ascend to Valhalla. 

And just like the fire of her words, she is burning on her lips when she meets Dior’s in a kiss. Every rise of her breasts, every fluttering of her stomach, she feels through the fabric and not through paper, and every drop of Dior’s sweet and milky exhales Dodo gathers, cherishes, and passes back to her. 

Dior’s frail knees touch cold steel, though it is but a mere addition to a bowl of surprising sensations. It is the thrill she is feeling, and it seeps down to the very core of her being where no sense, no sensibility could possibly reach her, and she kisses back with unrelenting need. Oh, how cruel is the world where a woman’s tender touch can grant answers to all your fallacies. Indeed, a lady’s reputation is as brittle as she is beautiful, and Dior is of unspeakable beauty, but she will cut the rope of her own social guillotine if it means she will feel Dodo’s fingers lightly knead on her rear for all the eternity has to offer.

Ah, how sweet is the bloom of roses.

How sweet is the taste of nectarines.

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed!! shall you experience enjoyment, would you be kind enough to leave your humble servant a comment? <3
> 
> im on twt @chaeleggiewon be sure to check if you would also.... like a personal gift from me :>


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